


I'll Break Them Down, No Mercy Shown

by azn-jack-fiend (ajf)



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Femdom, Flogging, Orgasm Denial, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajf/pseuds/azn-jack-fiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My god, no. I find communities based on common sexual interests unspeakably tedious.” He dried his hands on a dishtowel, rubbed his bristly jawline, stared at the ceiling. “Tedious and inefficient. When I’m in the mood for a quick round of sodomy and the lash, I reach for my wallet.”</p><p>“You hire dominatrixes.” Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. The very first woman she’d seen with Sherlock had had that air about her. </p><p>“I have a few regulars. Top-flight, lovely, vicious women.” He looked directly at her; she didn’t flinch. “You could, perhaps, observe one of my sessions. Take notes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Break Them Down, No Mercy Shown

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [heddychaa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/heddychaa) and [51stcenturyfox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/51stcenturyfox).

Manu Millar didn’t look like a man who’d just bared his soul. He leaned against the iron fence, lanky form draped at a slight diagonal, as composed as a high fashion model.   
  
“Well,” Joan said, “I appreciate that you shared such an intimate part of yourself.” Not knowing what else to do, she found herself retreating into the language of recovery. And damn, she didn’t want the distance. She wanted to reach out, break the ice between them, run her fingers through his crisp curls the rich color of brass. So long. So long since—  
  
“It might take you a bit of time to process this,” Manu said. He had an accent acquired in England, but not fully English. It lacked the connotation of upper-class arrogance—Sherlock’s own being a prime example—and she found Manu’s variant vastly superior and hopelessly seductive. “To be honest, most women I’ve dated congratulate me for sharing at such an early stage, then never call me back. I certainly don’t blame them. It’s a calculated risk on my part.”  
  
_I’m not that shallow_ , she almost said aloud. Or... maybe she was. God, she needed time to think. Manu was right. She swallowed thickly.  
  
“I know you mentioned being wary of codependency in relationships,” Manu added. Yes, she’d confessed that on the second date, a sign of their almost frighteningly rapid attraction. “I can assure that you that I don’t consider myself damaged, or in need of special caretaking. I’ll leave it at that. I do hope you call back, Joan. And if you don’t, I’ll still remember you fondly, in all your beauty and strength and delightful freckles and ridiculously perfect cheekbones. Goodnight.” He actually _bowed_ —not a full sweep but a graceful bobbing sway—turned on his heels, and then headed up Avenue A and down into the mouth of the subway.  
  
~~~  
  
Sherlock cocked his head in that aggressively birdlike way that tended to frighten small children, made a growling noise and twiddled his thumbs. “Manu Millar,” he drawled. “Man _u_ Mill _aaaaarrrh_.”  
  
Joan sighed. “I have a choice. I could do all my research at a café with wifi. I’d rather stay here, but I have a limited amount of energy to spend on fending off your... inappropriate curiosity.” She crossed her legs on the couch and returned to her textbook of forensics, but she couldn’t focus on the letters, not when Sherlock was twitching away in her peripheral vision.  
  
“Or you can spill your guts,” Sherlock suggested, his hands twirling in a gesture meant to symbolize vomiting. “Which would be infinitely more efficient.”  
  
“I’m studying the Glaister equation at the moment,” she said. “Maybe later.”  
  
“Hours elapsed since death as a linear function of the rectal temperature,” Sherlock recited. “Simple stuff. Hardly string theory. Guts. Spill. Now.”  
  
Joan tightened her lips.  
  
He glared at her all through dinner, and washed the dishes with a great degree of unnecessary clanging.  
  
Joan ignored the clanging, fed Clyde his lettuce, made herself a cup of tea and settled back in her chair to sip and, yes, finally spill. “I still think your curiosity is inappropriate, but... well...”  
  
Sherlock shut off the tap and turned to face her. “Oh, my curiosity is rapidly abating. After all, you’ve already decided against sexually dominating the mellifluously named Manu Mill _aaaaarrrh_. You’d be more reticent, otherwise.”  
  
“How did you know?” Joan asked the question as neutrally as possible. If she was going to be Sherlock’s assistant, learn his methods, she couldn’t afford to let wounded pride (or wounded privacy) get in the way. “About the domination thing?”  
  
“I found his kinklife.com profile in the male submission section.”  
  
She should have left it there, really, but she felt... lonely. Manu was fun, sophisticated, compelling, handsome. But they weren’t right for each other. She’d remember him fondly, as well.  
  
At least she had Sherlock tonight. No furnace of desire, but the sparks from their mental chemical reactions would keep her warm.  
  
“Do you spend a lot of time there?” she asked.  
  
“My god, no. I find communities based on common sexual interests unspeakably tedious.” He dried his hands on a dishtowel, rubbed his bristly jawline, stared at the ceiling. “Tedious and inefficient. When I’m in the mood for a quick round of sodomy and the lash, I reach for my wallet.”  
  
“You hire dominatrixes.” Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. The very first woman she’d seen with Sherlock had had that air about her.  
  
“I have a few regulars. Top-flight, lovely, vicious women.” He looked directly at her; she didn’t flinch. “You could, perhaps, observe one of my sessions. Take notes. I don’t think you should discount the possibilities that this Manu fellow has to offer.”  
  
“I’ll think about it,” she said automatically. Perhaps this was something she needed to discuss with her therapist.  
  
Who would regurgitate truisms about boundaries that Joan had already memorized years ago.  
  
Tomorrow. She’d think about it, and say yes.  
  
~~~  
  
Joan _had_ seen Regine before: a brief glimpse of an angular woman leaving the brownstone on the first day she’d met Sherlock.  
  
It took a minute for the memory to surface, though, and at first, Joan had mistaken her for an especially stylish fitness trainer. Regine wore sleek black clothes—no leather, no latex—and her bare arms were sleekly muscled. _Sleek_ was definitely the operating word. Joan had seen a documentary about leopard seals recently, smiling (sleek) pretty things with ferocious hidden teeth to prey on other seals, and Regine had that air about her.  
  
“I can’t tell you exactly what to expect,” Regine said in a low voice with a faint Brooklyn accent. “That would ruin the element of surprise. Sherlock’s a regular, so I already have a detailed list of go, no go and maybe.” She unzipped her duffel bag. The very first item she took out and placed on Sherlock’s bed was a bottle of lube.  
  
Joan leaned against the wall and managed to suppress a flinch. She was already intimately acquainted with bodies, many different kinds of bodies, and what was inside them. But the added emotional intimacy...  
  
She could do this. This wasn’t about sex, it was a point of pride.  
  
Wait, what the hell was she thinking? Of _course_ it was about sex.  
  
Still. No blushing. No flinching. She smiled neutrally at Regine, walked to the corner opposite the bed where there was a wooden chair stacked with books, removed the books and planted herself in their place, palms on thighs.  
  
“You might be uncomfortable with what I do,” Regine said. “Or very comfortable. I don’t know. Just leave quietly if you need to, and please don’t disturb the scene.”  
  
“Oh no,” Joan protested. “I’m here to... observe. To learn. I’ll be taking mental notes, and I respect that you’re a professional.”  
  
“Perfect.” Regine smiled, showing teeth. Very white teeth. “This is going to be fun, I think.”  
  
“Fun,” Joan echoed. She visualized a blank page and took her first mental note. F-U-N. God, how bizarre.  
  
A minute later, Sherlock strolled into his bedroom, fresh from the shower. He wore ill-fitting pajama pants that trailed against the hardwood floor. Joan suppressed another flinch at the sight of his damp, hairy chest. She didn’t like chest hair. Ty Morstan had been a trouper about shaving his for her. She wondered if her firmly worded request for smoothness was a sign of a controlling tendency. She’d always felt a little guilty about it, until now.  
  
“We’re going to start off slowly today,” Regine said, as if she were beginning a lesson. Oh—she _was_. “Time to set the tone. Sherlock, come here.”  
  
He paced over to her, as full of nervous energy as ever, his shoulders slightly hunched. But silent. Uncharacteristically silent.  
  
Regine was slightly shorter than Sherlock, even in her black high-heeled boots, but somehow, she didn’t seem to look up into his eyes. “How many chromosomes are in a human cell?” she asked him.  
  
“Twenty-three pairs,” Sherlock answered immediately.  
  
“Wrong.” She struck against him, moving too fast for Joan to see.  
  
A sharp gasp, a thud, and Sherlock was on his knees, Regine’s hand twisted in his hair, her pale arm flexing strong (sleek) muscles.  
  
Joan had a fierce urge to rise and protect him, but it was surprisingly easy to quell that urge. _He wants this_ , she reminded herself. The protectiveness sank down lower into her stomach, becoming something just as fierce but different, more complicated.  
  
“Tell me Avogadro’s constant,” Regine ordered, dispassionate and not out of breath at all.  
  
Sherlock paused a moment before answering. “Six point—”  
  
She slapped him. The sound wasn’t very loud, but it rang in Joan’s ears like an explosion, like a world falling apart. Not _her_ world, but one she was merely orbiting, observing.  
  
“Tell me Avogadro’s constant,” Regine said again.  
  
When Sherlock spoke, the labored drawl reminded her of times Joan had watched him perform information multiprocessing to a level that verged on overload. “Six... point... zero— _ahhhh_ —”  
  
Regine had tightened her fist. Pulled his head back. Bared his throat.  
  
He was completely vulnerable when she slapped him again. He took the blow without flinching. Although, come to think of it, he didn’t really have a choice.  
  
Regine relaxed her grip and smoothed his hair back into place, as if she were petting a sulky cat. “Now get on the floor and kiss my feet.”  
  
He lowered himself with a fluid economy of motion. Without the jerky speed that made him seem animated at a different frame rate from other human beings. He... _matched_. The tattoos on his back trembled slightly, marking the play of his muscles.  
  
He’d been forbidden, in a very visceral way, from using the highest functions of his mind.  
  
Joan stared down at her lap, examined the drape of her skirt, how it dipped between her thighs. She pulled and smoothed the fabric, took a deep breath, and looked up again.  
  
Regine had Sherlock up on the bed, on his back, and was tying his hands together with nylon rope. Her speed was eery. Joan imagined that must be part of the attraction for Sherlock, given his passion for competence.  
  
“I’m going to gag and blindfold him now,” Regine announced calmly, speaking for Joan’s benefit, obviously. Joan nodded, even though Regine wasn’t looking in her direction.  
  
Understanding the logic was a little difficult, but not impossible. The goal was to progressively take away certain intangible things from the subject. No, she should use the proper terminology, really. Not the subject... the sub _missive_.  
  
Another mental note.  
  
Regine tugged off Sherlock’s silly flannel pajama bottoms, then bound his ankles to his wrists until he was bent into a froglike form. Joan felt herself blushing, the heat rising rapidly in her cheeks. At least from her position opposite the side of the bed, she couldn’t see Sherlock’s genitals, only his pale naked thighs, bent across his stomach and chest. And at least he couldn’t see _her_ , not with the thick black blindfold across his eyes.  
  
He let out a long _aaaah_ , as if testing, when Regine inserted the black ball gag in his mouth. She fastened the gag and then did something to his nipples that resulted in a truer noise, muffled by the gag into an inhuman baying.  
  
Joan realized she’d lost the urge to protect him somewhere along the line. Not that she felt any contempt or pity for him in his abject state—in fact, something about the way he was bound stirred a kind of tender admiration in her heart—but she wanted to see how far they’d go. How he’d take more pain.  
  
Regine put little clamps on his nipples. More muffled noises emanated from Sherlock, some of them vaguely pleasured, like the sounds of lovemaking heard at a distance or through a wall. Then she drew a flogger from her bag and swished it against the unprotected backs of his thighs. Not a real stroke, not yet. She must be testing.  
  
The next stroke was real.  
  
Many things happened at once—or rather, they unfolded in overlapping time, like petals of a blooming flower. The swish and the muted crack, the stifled howl. The warmth between Joan’s legs, the knot in her throat she had to swallow down. The realization that _yes_ , she could do this. Quite well, even.  
  
_I’d have to imagine what he feels. Put myself inside his head._  
  
The science of empathy...  
  
Regine snapped on a pair of surgical latex gloves. Joan knew exactly how they’d smell: dry and clean and bitter. Regine reached between Sherlock’s bound, straining thighs, applying lubricant, stroking in and out. Joan’s sense memory broke down at that point.  
  
She continued taking notes, at least.  
  
The insertion of a metal plug followed, and then binding of genitalia.  
  
“Want a closer look?” asked Regine.  
  
“Alright.” Joan got up carefully, took small steps to the bed. She was a little paranoid of stumbling, even though she wasn’t exactly shaky.  
  
“You don’t want to go too tight. I’ve done this before with him—otherwise I’d leave the gag off and talk right through it.”  
  
“That’s... very tight.”  
  
Sherlock’s scrotum was— _no_. She couldn’t keep using such cold terminology.  
  
His balls were tied off with loops of cord, the skin drawn taut and shining-flushed. His erection twitched and lolled as Regine repositioned his knees. A bulbous metal disc concealed his... opening. The aesthetics of it all were absolutely fascinating. Joan had never been sexually attracted to Sherlock, had never wanted to see him naked, but to see his body altered and distended like this—yes, it _was_ compelling.  
  
She imagined doing this for Manu. _To_ Manu. A man with a body she was very much interested in seeing... Would that make this better? Or harder, perhaps, because she’d be altering something that was already beautiful?  
  
“I’m going to flog him some more,” Regine said.  
  
Joan moved back. “Is this good?”  
  
“Just right.”  
  
Regine struck again. Sherlock convulsed. His balls were a slightly different color now, even more flushed. God, he must be hurting. Trapped in pain.  
  
Joan licked her lips.  
  
Regine flogged him for a long time, sparing nothing in her reach. Welts crossed his thighs by the time she was done, and his muffled cries had gone noticeably hoarser. Joan noticed that Regine’s sides were trembling—not heaving, not a response to any truly heavy exertion—and God, she wanted to know how it felt, enough that her own breath came quicker.  
  
With a fresh pair of latex gloves snapped on, Regine loosened the cords around his balls, withdrew the plug, lubricated her right hand and inserted two fingers. “I’m going to milk his prostate,” she said. “Sometimes I’ll make them drink the come afterwards, but with Sherlock, we usually save the humiliation dynamic for the beginning.”  
  
Joan wondered if Regine included a time solely dedicated to her own pleasure. Maybe not with paying clients. The possibilities, the dynamics, were dizzying. Maybe this moment wasn’t the best time to ask.  
  
Sherlock’s orgasm—if it even _was_ an orgasm—seemed consummately uncomfortable. Joan had never seen a dick twitch that much, never seen the spurts constrained into trickles, slow and messy. Pleasure squeezing out in painful little packages in response to the merciless crook of a finger. Male ejaculation had always seemed to be about... dominating space, dominating other bodies. This was very different. Fascinatingly different.  
  
Regine cleaned him with wet wipes, packaged the gloves and wipes in a plastic bag and the metal plug in a separate plastic bag, and began to untie the thicker cords around his ankles and wrists. “Aside from cleaning him up and moisturizing the welts, there’s the emotional aftercare. Sometimes he cries for a while. He’ll call out other names. I don’t ask who they are.”  
  
“I think I’d better leave now,” Joan said. Watching him come back to himself from wherever he’d gone struck her as too intimate. That wasn’t the kind of knowledge she needed. Everything she’d seen so far _fit_ Sherlock, oddly enough. Hearing him call out names— _Irene_ , perhaps, or _Joan_ —would change something in her image of him. Would change _them_.  
  
“Give me a call sometime,” Regine said. “I can do telephone consulting. And if you can’t afford my rates, there’s always bartering.”  
  
“Thank you,” Joan said with sincerity, and walked stiffly out the door.  
  
She heard the slither of rope. A high whining noise, approaching speech. She didn’t look back.  
  
_I could pick up the phone and call him now. Tell him to come._  
  
No. She’d wait, and think it through. She didn’t feel ready yet. But something inside her had tipped deliciously toward an irreversible decision.  
  
  



End file.
